


Shape of My Heart

by ashtraythief



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Blood and Gore, M/M, Murder, Violence, evil boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 15:50:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5748916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashtraythief/pseuds/ashtraythief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are two things that make Jensen feel: killing people and thinking of the boy with the sunshine smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shape of My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> I was in a bad red rage-monster mood, so I wrote serial killers. Thid is a dark!fic with all the usual serial killer stuff (explicit). Apologies to all the people I owe/promised fic, but I don’t think I would’ve been able to write anything else yesterday than bloody murder. Title taken from the Backstreet Boys' song name, because yes, boybands and serial killers clearly belong in one fic. My contribution for this month’s smpc. Many thanks to fiercelynormal for the beta!

Jensen slowly drinks his coffee. On the small television in the corner of the dingy diner they show the breaking news. The Atlanta Slasher has struck again. Thirty-seven knife wounds, all of them severe. A rage kill. The Slasher’s signature.

Such a crude name. Jensen shakes his head in disapproval. 

For the first time, there’s an eyewitness, the reporter announces in that creepy over-enunciated voice that’s supposed to show excitement. A white male about six feet tall. Blond or brown hair. He was seen leaving the rest stop the same day investigators say the body was dropped just a few hundred yards from it in the woods. The killer is getting sloppy.

Jensen drops a few bills on the counter. It’s time to retire that particular persona. Let the FBI, now all hopeful over an escalating kill pattern, get excited and chase their tails, while Jensen drives off into the sunset. He hasn’t been out west in a while.

With a small nod towards the waitress, Jensen leaves. Out of the corner of his eyes he sees her hopeful smile, but he doesn’t pay it any attention. It’s not the smile he wants.

Outside, he gets into his dark blue sedan. While a truck is more practical, he only uses them when he really needs them. Sedans are much more inconspicuous. 

His three duffel bags are in the trunk. He only packs clothes and a few books, household tools. He’s not stupid. He’s not going to get into a road control with rope and knives in his trunk. The one knife he always carries is safely hidden behind a loose panel. His laptop bag is resting on the passenger seat. He puts on his seatbelt and starts the car. The Spice Girls are telling him what they want, what they really, really want. Jensen smiles and starts driving.

 

“The key to evading law enforcement,” Jensen tells Jeremy, excitement buzzing along under his skin and making him talkative, “is being unpredictable. Having no pattern.”

Jeremy’s eyes are wide and terrified. He tries to talk, but it’s muffled by the duct tape.

“The tape, for example,” Jensen continues, while he sharpens the katana, “that’s new. The last few times I used scarves or ties. Before that, I just cut the tongues out at the beginning. But that’s not as effective; people still make a surprising amount of noise after that. The important thing is, though, to be different.”

Jensen bought the katana six years ago at a yard sale in upstate New York. It looks a lot like the one Jared's dad had owned. He thinks enough time has passed to use it safely now. Besides, he’s in Texas. It’s a big enough state to actually stay in state this time. No need to get the FBI involved in all of his kills. 

“But,” he continues his lecture, “if you’re different every time, people get suspicious. Especially if the M.O. is too different. You know what that means, M.O., Jeremy? Watch enough CSI?”

Jeremy nods frantically. Sweat is running down his face. Jensen’s not sure if it’s from the heat or because he’s scared. There’s no doubt though about the origin of the stain at the seat of his pants. Good thing Jensen isn’t bothered by smells.

The katana is reasonably sharp now.

“The trick is to give them a killer,” Jensen says absently while he watches the sun reflect on the blade. “Let them interpret the kills, build up a persona. Give him a name. The Atlanta Slasher. The Cemetery Killer. The Hangman. It doesn’t matter what it is, as long as it’s catchy enough for the press.”

Carefully, Jensen puts the katana on the ground, then he starts packing his tools into his duffel.

“Kill a few people. Establish a pattern. An M.O. Then, you escalate it. Show them a progression. Then, you disappear. Maybe you died. Maybe you went to jail for another crime. Maybe you just moved. But do they make the connection when a new kill happens, with a different M.O.? Well, they might look into it.”

They do. Occasionally the FBI shows up in town when he picks a new method. 

“But if you stick to your new methods, do they really think a serial killer has a makeover?” Jensen shakes his head. “No, they don’t.” He sits down in front of Jeremy. “That’s the secret.”

Jeremy still looks terrified. Jensen sighs. Just once, he’d like to share his genius with someone and see it recognized. He pushes the thought of big brown-green-blue eyes away. They’ll never see what he’s doing now and he can’t imagine how they’d react. Sometimes, when he dreams, they shine with excitement. They watch his deeds, see his skill and they are full of love and admiration. They approve of his offerings. He’s been killing for almost twenty years now, averaging ten people a year. He’s one of the most prolific killers ever, certainly the most prolific he knows of, and he’s never been caught. They never even came close.

It helps that to him, it doesn’t matter how he kills. There’s no ritual he has to follow, no tool he has to use. For him, all that matters is the killing itself and the emotion he feels when he does. The memories which are so much clearer, so much more potent when he kills.

If they ever were to find him, he wonders if they’ll call him the Chameleon. 

He shakes himself out of his thoughts.

“Anyway, time’s up.”

In front of him, Jeremy starts to struggle against his bonds. Jensen tied him up with his arms over his head, rope fastened to a big hook hanging from the abandoned factory’s ceiling. Jeremy’s stretched, but he can still stand. Jensen had no intention of dislocating his shoulders, he’s not a sadist and neither is the killer he’s going for here. 

“This is actually a first for me,” Jensen explains and picks up the sword, “so we’ll see how it goes.”

Jeremy is screaming behind the tape, and if he continues to struggle like that, he will dislocate his shoulders. Jensen steps in front of him, katana raised.

He took off Jeremy’s shirt when he tied him up, so he can see now where he needs to cut. Jeremy’s muffled cries get louder and Jensen swings the sword.

He’s used to the resistance of human flesh and the katana is sharp. It goes in smoothly until it hits the vertebra. Jensen expected that. He pulls the sword out again.

Jeremy’s cries, impossibly shill for one second, have tapered off to heaving sobs. Tears are running down his cheeks and his eyes are filled with a terrified hopelessness. The familiar rush of the kill, which has been buzzing in Jensen the whole time he was with Jeremy, crescendos. It sets his body on fire, fills his veins, makes his head light. 

He strikes again. Again and again, until finally, the spine is severed, and the katana smoothly cuts through the skin, flesh and intestines, and Jeremy’s severed lower body thumps to the ground, his upper body still hanging from the ceiling, head now drooping low onto his chest. Blood continues to spill onto the floor, growing into a dark red pool. It washes around Jensen’s feet.

He’s achingly hard in his pants, so he gets on his knees, and pulls down the zipper. Taking off his gloves, he grips his dick. It doesn’t take long for him to come into the glove, nose filled with the smell of blood and death, looking at Jeremy’s dead body and seeing a dimpled sunshine smile.

 

_“I wish he was dead,” Jared says, eyes too serious and too angry for a twelve-year old._

_“Would that make you happy?” Jensen asks doubtfully. He never knew his own father, and he’s always been told he’d be happier if he had._

_With a determined expression, Jared nods. “Yes, yes it would.”_

_“You have to really imagine it,” Jensen says. “That’s what my grandma used to say when I told her what I wanted. You have to really imagine it, picture it, in detail.”_

_Jared closes his eyes, nose scrunched up adorably in concentration. Then a slow, beatific smile spreads over his face, dimples denting both cheeks. “It would make me very happy.”_

_Jared’s father is the first man Jensen kills._

 

For clean-up, Jensen decides on amateur sloppy. He burns the body on a regular fire, not hot enough to hide what he’s done or who the victim is. He even leaves the rope. 

The multiple tries with the katana will reveal an inexperience with a sword, so it seems like a good idea to establish a new killer. He’ll have to lay low for a while before he can strike again, a low burn maybe, he hasn’t done that in a while. A kill roughly every three or four months, waiting for about half a year before he escalates. Or maybe disappear before.

He’ll see how it goes, how long the sword fascinates him. When he drives away from the decaying building in a stolen truck, he wonders if the press will call him the Samurai. From the speakers of the truck, the Backstreet Boys are telling him to quit playing games with their hearts. 

Jensen remembers a lanky boy giving him an embarrassed smile. “These are the only CDs in the house,” he’d said, when Jensen caught him dancing to boy band music.

So Jensen had turned up the music, sang along to the newest hit and they’d whipped their heads to the beat, exaggeratedly singing along to the lines they knew while they shared the loot from Jared’s kitchen, Jensen’s grandma’s pantry and what had fit into Jensen’s pockets at the grocery store when no one was looking. They were having a feast while Take That told them to never forget.

 

 

Texas doesn’t work out. He doesn’t get enough work, he doesn’t like his apartment and the neighbor’s baby cries all the time. Even singing N*Sync’s Bye Bye Bye at the local karaoke and remembering how Jared’s hair used to fly when he jumped up and down doesn’t help with that level of stress. Jensen throws out all his plans and kills four people in as many weeks. 

The press doesn’t call him the Samurai because the local ME takes too long to figure out the sword Jensen used is a katana and by that time the term the Magician already sticks. It’s one of the worst monikers Jensen ever got. With the level of sloppiness he leaves behind, there’s nothing magical or mysterious about it. But apparently cutting people in half is a magician’s thing. Jensen thinks himself into a rage and in the end, he goes and kills the reporter who first came up with it. 

He burns the guy’s body in his apartment and doesn’t stick around to see the flames consume the whole building. He’s in his trusty sedan already, driving north. 

He picks up a hitchhiker, a rosy cheeked girl, not a day over eighteen, clearly running away from home and trusting the nice-looking man in his nice looking car. Jensen knocks her out and then drives off the highway, following a dirt road. He waits until it’s dark, and then he lays her out under the stars. He tapes her mouth shut, undresses her and gets out his favorite knife he only uses on special occasions. 

It’s a regular kitchen knife with a black handle, a long, straight blade for cutting meat. Slowly, almost tenderly, he drives it into the girl’s body, watches the blood well up on her tan skin. She’s got moles and Jensen caresses them all with his knife. He keeps cutting her after she’s already dead, just pushing the blade into her flesh again and again, letting the motion calm him down. He doesn’t count the cuts.

He leaves the girl like that. Scavengers will find her before people do. 

He’s cut between her legs too, so she’ll be another sad runaway, found, raped and then killed by a faceless predator.

That night, Jensen stays in an almost-clean motel room. In bed, he buries his face in the pillow and slowly moves his hips, rubbing his dick into the mattress. He relives the whole time he spent with the girl, cuts blurring into each other, dark blood on tan skin, dancing over the moles and he comes thinking of another set of moles, gracing skin much more flawless than hers.

 

He sets up shop in Kentucky. In the less populous states, he tries to focus more on people who won’t be missed. Homeless people, prostitutes, travelers, criminals. 

He hides all his kills, buries them deep in the forests. It works for seven months, then a hiker’s dog digs up one of his victims. Unfortunately for Jensen, the boy he’d caught on his hiking trip had rich parents who are important enough to put pressure on the law enforcement. The FBI comes to town and when the medical examiner announces that this was the work of a pro with a knife, they bring in the cadaver dogs. They find three more of his victims. The fourth body they find is not one of his, but at this point, it doesn’t matter. 

The press dubs him the Kentucky Killer. Not very original, but the alliteration is catchy. 

Jensen lays low. Even though he already scouted his next kill, it’s too risky. He knows how to be smart. He can’t kill while the FBI is in town and leaving just when they arrived would make him suspicious. He’s been around for over half a year, people will remember him. Old Mabel down in the diner even knows his breakfast order.

For a few weeks nothing happens. Then Jensen sees two FBI agents in the diner. One of them is older and balding, Jensen doesn’t spare him more than a rudimentary gaze to catalogue his face.

The other one though… He’s tall and broad-shouldered, but that’s not what catches Jensen’s eyes. He’s standing with his back to Jensen and the sun is filtering in through the windows, lighting up his shiny, brown hair, falling down to the collar of his shirt longer than any FBI regulation should allow.

The desire to run his fingers through that hair hits Jensen impetuously and he’s still wondering why he’s so affected when the agent turns his head.

He looks so different, is Jensen’s first, and very stupid thought. Then again, he always was a bit slower around Jared, too much of his brain busy with cataloguing the beauty of his features and the sound of his laugh.

He looks good, is Jensen’s second thought. It’s still stupid, because Jared was gorgeous as a boy, with all the promises to grow up into a beautiful man. Still. Jensen thinks he shouldn't be too hard on himself, after all, he hasn’t seen Jared in over ten years. Fifteen, next summer, but who’s counting.

Jared grew up tall, taller than Jensen by a few inches. His face has become broader, features harder. But his eyes are still the same, slightly slanted with the indeterminable mix of brown, blue and green that changes depending on the lighting. He’s still beautiful.

Jensen stands there, frozen in the entryway of the diner, and waits for Jared to recognize him, acknowledge him, do something. But Jared just looks at him, then turns around again.

Jensen keeps standing, keeps waiting, for Jared to turn back. He doesn’t. He keeps talking to a man, Tommy or Robbie or something, the guy who runs the gas stop out of town. Like he’s moving through cotton wool, Jensen slowly walks to his regular booth, hearing everything on mute. 

Jared doesn’t know him anymore. Or doesn’t want to know him. Jensen means nothing to him. Jensen left and this is his punishment.

Mabel comes over and pours him a cup. Usually Jensen looks up at her and gives her his nice-boy-next-door smile and then Mabel will tell him about her nieces who live in Louisville and how Jensen needs to come by when they’re around.

Today, Jensen doesn’t look up. He still stares unseeingly out of the window. Jared doesn’t know him anymore. It hurt when he left, but this is worse. It’s unexpected. A moment of hope, the possibility of something… again, then taken away. Jensen thinks that for the first time in his life, he’s actually in shock.

“You alright, hun?” Mabel asks. “You look like you seen a ghost.”

“A ghost,” Jensen repeats. Maybe that’s all he is to Jared. The ghostly memory of a teenage boy who shared his sandwiches with him when his mom couldn’t make him any because her arm was broken again.

Jared’s voice permeates the fog in Jensen’s mind then when he moves through the diner, saying goodbye to the gas station owner. Helplessly, Jensen’s eyes follow him until he has to turn his head.

“Ah,” Mabel says, sounding enlightened and deeply satisfied at the same time. “Strapping young man, that FBI agent.” Then she leans down to Jensen under the pretense of straightening out the tablecloth. “You could’ve told me, you know. I might be old, but I think love’s a beautiful thing, no matter which way it goes.”

Jensen looks up at her, confused. Mabel just shakes her head. “No wonder you never wanted to meet my nieces. Tell you what though. That nice agent over there, Pada-something was his name, he’s coming back here tomorrow when that no good hunter Cal Dunken comes in for his weekly plate of my blueberry pie. Two o’clock, every day like clockwork.” She smiles at him.

Jensen knows he needs to say something, but he has no idea what. He realizes Mabel just figured out he’s gay, but he has no idea why she’s talking about Jared. She couldn’t know about their past.

“I don’t understand,” Jensen forces himself to say.

Mabel laughs, deep and throaty. “Lora, the pretty redhead in the corner, she noticed that nice agent too.”

An almost forgotten red rage surges through Jensen. Lora might have to meet Jensen’s favorite knife, FBI or no FBI.

“Now, I haven’t seen many men that weren’t interested in her and none that didn’t have a ring on their finger. And that agent... Well, he looked at you when I came over here.” Mabel winks at him and turns around, waddling back to the counter.

Jared didn't look at Lora, he looked at Jensen. But then why didn’t he say something?

Did Jared figure out that Jensen was the one who killed his father? He’s an FBI agent now, hunting murderers. Does he do that because of his father’s death?

Jensen plays out the different scenarios, imagines different reasons. In the end, he can’t know, but now he knows he’s here, he can’t not see Jared again. 

He’s never sought him out, never looked him up. The memories of him, that sweet faced boy with the gleam in his fox-tilted eyes, they’re special. Precious. They’re what he sees in that ecstatic moment of the kill. Jared, happy. It was the first thing Jensen ever wanted besides killing someone. It was what gave him the courage to actually kill someone. Jared’s happiness, it set him free and he’s treasured it ever since.

Now that he’s seen Jared again, looked into his eyes, color still as indeterminate as it was fifteen years ago, now he can’t let go. He needs to see Jared again. Needs to see him smile. Needs to know if it’s as powerful now, as it was then.

 

“Figured you’d be early,” a quiet voice says.

Startled, Jensen looks up from his coffee. It’s noon and here Jared is, two hours early, standing next to Jensen’s booth. Jensen’s heart starts beating a staccato rhythm in his chest.

“Mind if I sit?” Jared asks in his regular voice. “We’re asking everybody a few questions.”

If it wasn’t for the opening sentence Jensen would be sure Jared doesn’t know who he is. As it is, Jensen leans back, trying to appear much calmer than he feels and gestures to the bench in front of him. “Sure thing, agent.”

The hint of a pleased smile flashes across Jared’s face and with startling clarity, Jensen realizes, Jared knows. Knows him, knows his secret, knows what he’s doing here now. 

 

_“My daddy’s dead,” Jared says, gangly legs swinging from the wall. He’s just had another growth spurt._

_“I heard,” Jensen says. “Sorry.”_

_Jared looks at him, searching him with his eyes. “Why? You know I hated him.”_

_Jensen shrugs. “He was still your dad.”_

_He’d known it was the right thing to do, known that Jared wanted it. But maybe he’d changed his mind. Jensen remembers Carleen Anderson, his neighbor. She’d said she hated her aunt’s old stinking dog because he always slobbered all over her, but when Jensen had killed him, she’d cried._

_Jared just raises his bony shoulders. “Just because he fucked my momma doesn’t mean I gotta love him. He was a bastard.”_

_Jensen nods relieved. He did good._

_“I wonder who did it,” Jared says, looking Jensen dead in the eyes._

_For a moment Jensen is sure, Jared knows. It’s there, in his eyes._

_Jensen opens his mouth, but no words come out. If he admits it and Jared tells on him, he’s gonna go to jail. He wants to tell him, desperately wants to trust him, but when he’s finally ready, Jared starts talking again._

_“They say it was probably a robber. They don’t think they’re gonna catch him, I overheard the detective talking.”_

_Is Jared giving him an out? Does he want to reassure him? Jensen isn’t sure._

_“Do you need to know?” he finally asks._

_Jared gives him a small smile, the pleased one only Jensen gets._

_“Nah,” he says. “I’m happy no matter what.”_

_They never talk about it again._

 

“You’re a hard man to find,” Jared says, after Mabel brought him a coffee, and winked at Jensen before walking off.

“You were looking?” Jensen asks, calming heartbeat picking up again.

Jensen had left when he’d finished school, had to leave, really, too many bodies and the police getting suspicious. Jared had been fifteen, still in school, home alone with his ailing mother. Jensen had to leave and he knew Jared wouldn’t come with him, couldn’t come with him really, so he’d never asked. Never said goodbye, either. He’d just left a letter on Jared’s nightstand.

“I was always looking,” Jared says.

That — Jensen doesn’t know what to do with that. There had been something growing between them that last summer. Jensen had lost his heart and his soul to Jared the moment he’d met the boy, but he never knew if Jared just saw more than the older brother figure in him. As Jared grew older, sometimes his looks lingered. They lingered on Jensen’s mouth, on his eyes, on his hands when he was whittling away at a piece of wood. His hands lingered too. On Jensen’s shoulders and his back, sometimes on his knee when they were sitting next to each other.

Jensen thought there was a maybe, a possibility, but Jared was so young, so full of sunshine smiles and happiness and Jensen was already killing. 

“I didn’t think you would,” Jensen says, voice scratchy. He clears his throat. “We were just neighbors for a few years.”

For the first time, the air of confidence around Jared wavers. “I always thought we were friends.”

“Yeah, we were,” Jensen says hurriedly, because there’s a hint of sadness in Jared’s voice and there should never be sadness in Jared.

For a while, they sit in silence, both of them looking at their coffee cups. Jensen wonders what it means. Was Jared looking for Jensen, his friend, or was he looking for Jensen, the killer? Has he made the connections to Jensen’s other kills? And now that Jared has found him, what will he do? Like so many times before, Jared is a puzzle. Beautiful, mysterious. Jensen doesn't know what’s going on behind his ever changing eyes and he desperately needs to know.

When he looks up, Jared does too.

“Did you have a thing for me? Back then?” Jared asks abruptly. “I thought… Sometimes it seemed like it.” He looks at Jensen, resolved. “I had a thing for you.”

“A thing,” Jensen repeats, voice flat. “A thing.” 

He mulls it over, what it could mean. If it’s a casual admittance, building a bridge to way back when, gaining his trust. Or does it mean more? Is it a game, a ploy, or is it real? He badly wants it to be real. He hasn’t realized he was waiting for this until it’s right in front of him. Does “thing” refer to the same unnamable, too strong feeling that’s been eating away at Jensen ever since he saw Jared smile for the first time?

“No,” he decides. “I never had a thing for you.”

The slump in Jared’s shoulders is almost imperceptible, but Jensen’ catches it. He’s always been very observant. 

“You were the first person that ever mattered,” Jensen says and Jared’s eyes widen in surprise.

“All those people out there, they’re meaningless.” It just bursts out of Jensen. “Sacks of flesh and bones, running around like headless chicken, thinking they actually matter to this world. None of them do, Jared, never have. But you…”

Jensen breaks off. Thinks of the light in Jared’s eyes, how the sun lights up his hair in the sun, how it becomes so shiny. Almost like a halo. Jensen’s grandma used to have a picture of an angel in her room at the nursing home. Jared looks nothing like that angel, yet Jensen always had to think of him when he saw it. It’s the halo.

“You saved me, you know?” Jared smiles, full of fond memories and satisfaction. “He would’ve killed my mom and me. You set me free.”

“So you knew all along,” Jensen says, tensing in case he needs to bolt. He doesn’t believe it, but he has to be careful.

Jared’s eyes are soft when he answers. “I knew, yeah. I was just waiting for you to tell me. But you never did. I thought maybe you didn’t trust me enough to admit it, so I was waiting. Waiting for you to trust me like that.”

Jensen cocks his head. “Why? Because you had a _thing_ for me?” He has to know.

Jared smiles ruefully. It’s not one Jensen has ever seen before, and he instantly catalogues it, how one corner of Jared’s mouth raises up his than the other one, digs back deeper, denting a bigger dimple in his right cheek then his left where it’s barely visible.

“So, _thing_ might have been a bad word. But walking up to a guy you haven’t seen in fifteen years to tell him that you’re still in love with him when he abandoned you is kind of awkward.”

The words are everything Jensen never wanted to admit he needed, so he blurts out what he thinks. “You don’t know me. We both grew up, you have no idea who I am.”

Jared leans back against his seat, stretches out one long and muscular arm along the red upholstery. He rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt and his skin his just as tan and smooth as Jensen remembers.

“You have many names,” Jared says quietly. “The Colorado River Killer, the Highway Killer, the Demon of Des Moines, the Cemetery Killer, the Hangman, the Hillside Strangler, the Flower Killer, the Vampire Killer, the Campus Killer, the Atlanta Slasher, and most recently, the Kentucky Killer.” He lists every name calmly, almost clinically. “There are more, I guess. Some names, you haven’t gotten because people haven’t figured it out yet. You’re good at what you do, even I’m missing about four years total since you left.”

“You forgot the Texan Magician,” Jensen says.

Jared raises his eyebrows. “Really? I thought that was too sloppy to be you.”

Jensen shrugs, heartbeat finally calming down. Jared knows his work. He figured Jensen out and instead of freaking out, it actually calms Jensen down. Jared _knows_ him. 

“Needed to keep the Feds off my trail,” Jensen explains, which reminds him of why Jared is actually talking to him. “Which is you, actually. Interesting career choice, by the way.”

“Well, I wanted to find you,” Jared says, completely unashamed. “It seemed like the best way.”

“What do you want from me, Jared?” He’s not sure what Jared is imagining here and he has no idea what he has to offer.

“I admire your work,” Jared says, a gleam in his eyes he used to get about his favorite ice cream. “Always have. I found my daddy’s body, you know.”

Jensen didn't.

Jared smiles, serene and happy. “It was a work of art. You were always so gifted with your hands. And it was for me. Were the others for me too, Jensen? I couldn’t help but hope. The Cemetery Killer always picked grave stones with people called Thomas to pose his victims. My daddy’s name. And the Flower Killer left dandelions with his victims. The profilers thought you wanted to express the evanescence of life, but I remembered how we picked the dandelions growing in my backyard and blowing off the petals.” Jared’s eyes are shining now, hopeful and excited. “So, were they for me?”

Jensen is disarmed by Jared’s smile. “They all were,” he croaks out.

It’s true. They were all to satisfy that hunger in Jensen, to give him that rush of power, but it always led him back to Jared and his angelic smile. He hadn’t even picked the first dandelion on purpose, but even unconsciously, everything he did led back to Jared.

Jared reaches across the table, takes Jensen’s hand. Jared’s long fingers wrap around Jensen’s, his thumb rubs over Jensen’s palm.

“You should have come looking for me.”

“I didn’t know. I didn’t think you’d accept this side of me,” Jensen says.

“I get it,” Jared says. “I’m just sad that I didn’t find you sooner.”

Jensen can’t stop himself from smiling.

“I’m a very good agent,” Jared continues, “but if my partner died, that’s something I’d never recover from. I’d have to take some time off, maybe even quit.”

“What did he do?” Jensen asks calmly, even though excitement is rising up again.

“He’s a slob,” Jared says disdainfully. “He dirties up my car all the time. And he always flirts with witnesses that are half his age.”

Jensen takes a sip of his now cold coffee, trying to understand. “That doesn’t really make him a bad guy.”

“No. Does it have to?” Jared asks.

Jensen shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter to me. But I thought it would for you.”

Again, there’s that rueful smile Jensen’s coming to love. It’s boyish, remembering him of their first summers together, when he was Jared’s hero and they were full of mischief. 

“Disappointed?” Jared asks and there’s something coy about it.

It’s just like when Jared was the most charming, wide-eyed boy to get out of throwing a ball through the window of the elderly lady across the street from them. Jensen had suspected Jared had an evil streak but he’d left before he’d ever gotten to see it. It’s a shame, really, Jensen would’ve loved to see that develop. Who knows though, what’s possible now.

“Do you want to do it?” Jensen asks. He wonders if Jared wants them to be a team and he’s not sure if he can share his ritual, as changing as it may be.

Immediately, Jared shakes his head, hair flying with the motions and Jensen’s stomach sinks. Then Jared grins. “I want to watch.”

 

It’s almost too easy. Jared’s partner never sees it coming. Jensen performs his last ritual as the Kentucky Killer, leaving a goodbye message written in the agent’s blood on the wall for good measure. When Jensen’s done, bloody and sweaty, Jared crawls into his lap and they kiss for the first time. 

“So beautiful,” Jared murmurs between kisses, “so fucking beautiful.”

Jensen takes his face between his bloody palms and kisses the mouth he thought of so often. Jared moans against his lips. “I want you to fuck me. Here.”

Jensen doesn’t care where they do it, but they have to be safe. It’s the middle of the night, they have hours until Jared needs to ‘discover’ his partner. Old Mabel saw them talk and flirt the whole day, saw them leave together. ‘Jason Teague’ will be Jared’s alibi, if he should ever be suspected which is doubtful with the impeccable service record that he assured Jensen he had.

There are other concerns, probably, but Jared’s already kissing down Jensen’s neck, his hands are tugging at his shirt and they’re sitting on the large tarp Jensen brought with him when Jared let him in through the room’s window.

When Jared bites Jensen’s neck gently and whispers a needy ‘please’ into his skin, Jensen can’t say no.

It’s been a long time since he picked himself up a tall, brown haired guy in a bar. It was never enough and it could never compare to the rush he got after a kill, memories of Jared filling his mind. Now, he’s got the real Jared right next to him, bloody smears marking Jensen’s deed on his skin.

They undress hurriedly and Jared fishes out a tube of lube and condoms out of his pants before he throws them to the side.

“You wanted this,” Jensen says, chest filling with a dark satisfaction. “You _planned_ for this.”

“Usually I only have the pictures,” Jared says, breath going quicker, and looks over to his dead partner. “Now I have the real deal. You were even more beautiful than I thought you’d be. So sure.”

Jensen picks up the lube and presses Jared down on the tarp.

Jared struggles and turns around. “Like this,” he says, when he’s on his hands and knees, the dead body in his line of sight when he looks up to the right.

Pride mixes with the satisfaction and Jensen hurries to open Jared up. He pushes two fingers in at once, suspects Jared has a thing for fast and maybe a bit painful and he’s rewarded with a beautiful sensual arch of Jared’s back and a bitten-off moan.

“Yes, come on. Want it now.”

When Jensen pushes inside, one hand on Jared’s back, the scent of sweat and blood filling his nose, his kill lying next to him in all his broken beauty, he feels complete.

Then Jared pushes his ass back, taking Jensen in deeper and Jensen grips him tighter so he doesn’t collapse at the sudden rush of pleasure.

“Jensen, please.”

Someday, Jensen will take his time. Someday, he might even reach for his favorite knife, leave a more lasting mark than the blood smears. 

Today, all he can do is push inside, fucking Jared faster and deeper, chasing the ever growing buzz under his skin, feel the tension inside of him growing, a feeling that’s so similar and yet entirely different to what he feels when he kills. 

Jared’s moving with him, eyes fixed on Jensen’s work. He’s panting and a trail of sweat is running down his back, gather in the dip of his spine. Jensen leans forward, kisses and tastes him.

“One day,” he says into Jared’s skin, “I’m gonna bathe you in blood.”

Jared bites out a breath and tenses around him, then he comes with a violent shudder. Entranced, Jensen watches him, watches his muscles tense under the skin, his blood-coated skin moving. It doesn’t take Jensen long to come after that, to push deep into Jared’s relaxed body, see him dreamily look at the corpse and then back over his shoulder at Jensen, deeply satisfied smile on his lips.

Jensen’s orgasm shakes his whole body, and he collapses exhausted on Jared’s back. Killing and fucking, it’s a potent combination and it leaves him completely drained. He just manages to pull out, then Jared turns on his back and pulls Jensen’s head down onto his broad chest, and strokes his hair.

A deep, soothing calm settles into Jensen’s body, something even an exhausting kill hasn’t given him in year, maybe ever. 

“Next time, can you do something with fire?” Jared asks around a yawn. “A small blowtorch, maybe?”

Jensen takes Jared’s hand and lifts it to his mouth. The gesture is over the top, too romantic for a bloody motel room, but he doesn’t care. “Anything you want.”

“And we should have music.”

“I have the Backstreet Boys greatest hits in the car,” Jensen says.

Jared smiles, pure sunshine and dimples, just for Jensen. For that smile, Jensen will do anything.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are much appreciated <3


End file.
